


if you wanna go to heaven you should fuck me tonight

by orphan_account



Series: newtmas cruise ship au [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Cruise Ship, Bad Dirty Talk, Blow Jobs, Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Newt is a trainee chef, One Shot, PWP kinda, Pining, Sex Dreams, Thomas is in a band, cheesy pet names, fantasies, neither job is very relevant to the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If they were in the real world, he’d probably go for it. Flirt a little, buy Newt a drink, ask him back to his place. Newt’s age might be a stumbling block, but it’s not that big of a difference. There are ten years between Thomas’s parents, after all, and only two between him and Newt.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>But they’re not in the real world. And they’re friends, which is another problem—Thomas has never wanted to fuck one of his friends before, but now he does, and it’s a whole new world for him. He finds himself caught in a strange sort of Limbo, where hanging out with Newt is amazing and terrible all at the same time, because all he wants to do is kiss him and touch him until he forgets everything but Thomas’s name, but he can’t.</i></p><p> </p><p>While working on a cruise ship, Thomas falls for the gorgeous, witty Newt, but doesn't want to risk ruining their friendship. Trying to ignore his feelings somehow leads to him ending up in the same bed as Newt, where it suddenly becomes a lot harder to pretend that they're just friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you wanna go to heaven you should fuck me tonight

It’s week three of the great cruise ship adventure, and it turns out that it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.

Thomas knows that he shouldn’t be surprised—after all, it definitely sounded too good to be true when he applied. Three months cruising the ocean, playing music every night, getting paid to go on vacation. Sure, he had to take on a second job on the ship as a waiter and he was going to be paid minimum wage, but it still seemed like a dream.

The reality, Thomas has discovered, is a lot less attractive than the dream.

For one thing, the living arrangements are like something from the depths of hell itself. Thomas shares a tiny cabin with Minho, the bassist in his band, and sometimes the quarters are too close for comfort. Their cabin has two bedrooms with a single bed in each, a tiny bathroom, and a miniscule living area with an unbelievably small kitchen crammed into it.

They get free room and board, and most of their meals are paid for by the cruise company, but it still kills Thomas just a little bit that there’s no coffee machine in their “kitchen”.

It turns out that they don’t even get to play every night—for some unfathomable reason, the organisers of the cruise booked far too many entertainment acts, and thanks to the wording of their contracts, weren’t able to go back on any of the hires. Which means that Thomas’s band plays twice a week if they’re lucky, so at the end of the day, he’s really a waiter and occasional musician rather than the other way around.

But the thing that makes it worth it, even with all of the annoyances, is the people he’s met.

It’s been three weeks since the ship first set sail, and Thomas’s already found a group of solid, dependable friends on-board.

There’s Teresa, a quick-witted, gorgeous twenty year old who works as a waitress at the Jolly Roger, one of the family themed restaurants on-board. She and Thomas spend most of their time together flirting, and he’s constantly telling her that she should put in for a transfer to one of the bars on the ship—her good looks are wasted on the under-five set. But she says she likes the kids, so she stays where she is, and Thomas supposes that’s a good thing. If she was working in one of the bars, guys would be crawling all over her, and even Teresa is just a friend, he’s the jealous type.

Teresa’s roommate is Brenda, no-nonsense, reckless, and smart as a whip. She’s working on the ship over the summer because she wants to travel, and this is a cheap and effective way to visit a lot of places at once. Thomas tried to flirt with her when they first met, too, but she shut him down straight away—her fiancé, she explained, was waiting for her at home.

Thomas’s also struck up a rapport with Alby, an aspiring photographer who works in the precious memories section of the ship, making up tacky keyrings and souvenir photo frames for families to take home to remember the trip by.

By far his favourite friend that he’s made on the ship though, is Newt. Newt’s younger than Thomas—just turned nineteen—and he’s a trainee chef, cycling through the various different restaurants on the ship during the week. He’s witty and cute and the only other person on the ship who’s able to match Thomas quip-for-quip, apart from Teresa, though bantering with Newt is infinitely more fun thanks to his delicious English accent. He’s the type of person who it’s impossible not to instantly like, and Thomas’s been fascinated by him from the moment they met.

Newt is where things get complicated.

Because Thomas knows himself well enough to know when he’s starting to develop feelings for someone, and he definitely feels something for Newt. At any other time, that wouldn’t be a problem; Thomas is a flirt, and the rest of the world knows it, and usually, that’s fine. But here on the ship, things don’t work the same way they do in the real world. If Thomas started something with Newt and then screwed it up, as he usually does, then the next few months would be unbearable. They would see each other all the time—not in the least because they mostly share the same circle of friends.

So it’s becoming a problem. Thomas doesn’t do crushes, but as the days wear on, he has to admit that what he’s feeling for Newt might not be purely based on aesthetics. Sure, Newt’s _really_ attractive—he’s got that fresh-faced thing going on, and puberty hit him a little late, so he’s still all gangly and cute. He’s all long limbs and skinny hips, with a mop of messy blond hair and the warmest brown eyes that Thomas has ever seen. Thomas finds himself staring at Newt constantly, until he’s memorised the way that Newt flicks his hair out of his eyes when he’s concentrating or fiddles with his sleeve when he’s worried. He gets distracted by how Newt looks in his chef’s coat, and in his regular clothes, and in his swimsuit, which Thomas has only seen once but would probably pay to see again.

But it’s more than that.

It’s not just Newt’s looks that make Thomas’s stomach twist and his heart pick up pace. It’s the way he jokes around, the affectionate nicknames he has for his friends, the way he has of making Thomas feel steady after a shitty day. It’s the personality beneath the beautiful exterior that makes it hard for Thomas to pretend like Newt’s just another friend to him.

If they were in the real world, he’d probably go for it. Flirt a little, buy Newt a drink, ask him back to his place. Newt’s age might be a stumbling block, but it’s not _that_ big of a difference. There are ten years between Thomas’s parents, after all, and only two between him and Newt.

But they’re not in the real world. And they’re friends, which is another problem—Thomas has never wanted to fuck one of his friends before, but now he does, and it’s a whole new world for him. He finds himself caught in a strange sort of Limbo, where hanging out with Newt is amazing and terrible all at the same time, because all he wants to do is kiss him and touch him until he forgets everything but Thomas’s name, but _he can’t_.

Even if he could, he’s almost certain that Newt wouldn’t want him to.

It leads to endless nights alone in his cabin, thinking of Newt while he touches himself and then swallowing back feelings of guilt and shame when he sees him the next day.

By the time week three of the great cruise ship adventure comes to an end, Thomas is jittery, tense, and in desperate need of a distraction from beautiful blond boys that he can’t have.

The band isn’t playing tonight, and neither he nor Minho is scheduled to work, so he declares a drinking session. He and Minho head for the Pearl, one of the nicer bars on the ship. They start easy, with a few beers each, and then Thomas buys them a round of shots, and after an hour or so has passed, Thomas’s head is feeling pleasantly fuzzy.

Minho holds up his beer in a toast, squinting as some of the amber liquid sloshes over the lip of the bottle.

“To adventure,” he says, his words sounding strange and unsteady. “And— _hic_ —booty on the high seas!”

He starts to laugh, seemingly unaware of Thomas’s groan and subsequent eye roll.

“That was terrible,” Thomas informs him, and Minho shrugs.

“You might not think so if you were getting some action, man. What’s up with that? At home you’ve got me beat. Here, you’re just beating your meat.”

He laughs again and Thomas punches him in the arm.

“Not all of us have to stick our dick in someone new every night,” he says moodily.

“You haven’t stuck it in anyone since we left land, dude. I share a room with you, remember? I know how much you’ve been jerking off.”

The bartender coughs and Thomas glares at Minho.

“Can we not talk about this here?”

Minho shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, downing the rest of his beer. “All I’m saying is, it’s not like you haven’t got options. I know at least three waitresses who’re dying to bang you, and a busboy who said he’d wash dishes for the rest of his life if he could suck you off just once.”

“Not interested,” Thomas says.

It’s a mistake, because he’s always interested in sex, and Minho’s not yet drunk enough to let the remark pass by. In fact, he’s sober enough to look at Thomas shrewdly as he flags down the bartender for another drink.

“You’re into someone,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“No,” Thomas lies, but Minho’s been his best friend since they were in grade school, and he’s not about to let him off that easily.

“Come on, man. Who is it? Do I know them?”                 

Thomas closes his eyes and raises his bottle to his lips, gulping down the remainder of the drink like he’s dying of thirst. This is not a conversation that he wants to have. Tonight is supposed to be about forgetting about Newt, but it seems as if the world is working against him, because even as he decides that he won’t tell Minho the truth, he hears an all-too familiar laugh coming from behind him.

“Are you trying to drown yourself?” Newt says, sliding onto a stool across from Minho and Thomas with an easy smile. “Because there’s an ocean just outside, you know. It’s probably quicker than drowning in—” He squints at the label on Thomas’s beer bottle. “Canadian beer? Bloody hell, Tommy, I thought you had better taste.”

Thomas doesn’t respond immediately, but something must show on his face, because he hears Minho start to chuckle beside him.

“Oh, man,” Minho says under his breath. “Thomas. What the fuck?”

“Just trying to forget about something,” Thomas says, raising his voice as if to hide Minho’s words—which is dumb, because even if Newt could hear what Minho was saying, he wouldn’t know what he meant. “Alcohol helps.”

“Mm, I’m sure,” Newt says, but he reaches out and takes the bottle from Thomas’s hands and sets it down on the bar. There’s a brief pause and then Minho clears his throat.

“Man, I’m beat,” he says, even though the bartender is approaching with his new drink. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Thomas suddenly wants to retract every bad thing he’s ever said about Minho, because here he is, offering him an out from a situation he really doesn’t want to be in.

“You’re probably right, we should get going,” he says, but then Minho’s shaking his head.

“I’m not heading back to our room,” he says, and then his eyes flicker suggestively to Newt, and Thomas wants to murder him. “Teresa invited me over to her place tonight. So, I’ll see you tomorrow. Night, Newt.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Thomas alone with the one person he really, really doesn’t want to be alone with right now. Newt hardly seems to notice, though; he smiles at Thomas again and then, after a moment’s consideration hands back his beer, taking the one intended for Minho for himself.

“You’re underage,” Thomas says. Newt laughs.

“I’m English,” he reminds him, “and we’re not even in the States anymore. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never had a beer before.” To prove his point, he takes a swig from the bottle, and Thomas immediately thinks that it should be illegal for him to purse his lips like that. “So,” Newt says, swallowing back the beer, “what are you trying to forget?”

Thomas averts his eyes. “Nothing important.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” Thomas says sharply, and Newt drops it.

For a few moments, they sit in a tense sort of silence, and Thomas decides that the only way he’s going to get through this is to get spectacularly drunk. He’s already more than halfway there—it just takes another beer or two and then he’s talking to Newt like he normally does, without any tension or awkwardness. He takes it too far, though. An hour later, he can barely sit up straight on his bar stool, and Newt eventually tells the bartender not to give him anymore.

“Maybe we should get you back to your room,” Newt says.

Thomas allows himself a moment to think about that. Newt, helping him out of the bar and back to his cabin. Newt, helping him to shrug off his jacket and shoes and maybe even his shirt. Newt, fumbling with his buttons and then laughing that breathy laugh of his, the one that sends shivers down Thomas’s spine and heat creeping across his skin. Newt, giving up on the buttons as a lost cause and tearing the shirt off with his teeth instead…

“Oh, God,” Thomas whimpers involuntarily, burying his head in his hands. “I’m a fucking loser.”

Newt laughs and then helps Thomas to his feet, supporting his weight much more easily than Thomas would have expected from someone with such a slim figure. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed.”

Thomas hopes that Newt can’t see what those words do to him.

They stagger out of the bar, Newt propping Thomas up and talking to him in a soothing voice to try and keep him distracted from the way that the floor keeps rolling out from under him. Thomas’s not really paying attention to the words, but the soft murmur of Newt’s voice is distracting nonetheless, and the feeling of his arm supporting Thomas’s back keeps him awake.

Thomas’s cabin isn’t too far from the Pearl, but when they get there, Newt seems reluctant to leave.

“Go,” Thomas says, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of Newt’s cabin. “Go to bed. ’M fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

Newt still seems hesitant. “I don’t want you to choke on your own vomit or anything.”

“’M _fine_ , Newt. Go.”

But even as the words leave Thomas’s lips, he’s tottering and slipping without Newt’s arm to hold him up. As he loses his balance and ends up sliding to the floor, Newt gives a sigh and reaches out a hand to help him up.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he says, gripping Thomas’s hand in his and hauling him to his feet. “I’m staying.”

This entire night has been about getting away from the inappropriate thoughts that Thomas’s been having about Newt, but damn if those words don’t send a thrill of excitement down his spine anyway. He knows that Newt means it in a purely platonic way, that this impromptu sleepover is only happening because Thomas is too drunk to take care of himself, but he still feels a jolt of pleasure at the thought of Newt staying in his cabin. He’s grinning from ear to ear as Newt fumbles through Thomas’s pocket for the key card and unlocks the door, letting them into the tiny living space.

“Minho’s room is through there,” Thomas says, inclining his head to the door to the left. But Newt frowns and heads for the other door instead, the one that leads to Thomas’s bedroom. “Um, what’re you doing?”

“I have to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit,” Newt says. “I can hardly do that without staying in the same room as you, can I?”

“I… I’ve only got a twin bed,” Thomas says weakly, but it’s probably futile, because Newt’s already sitting down on the edge of his mattress and tugging off his shoes. He looks up at Thomas and shrugs.

“I don’t mind sharing if you don’t. And if you do, I can sleep on the floor.”

Thomas bites his lip. Sharing a bed with Newt is hardly going to help his crush—because damn it if that’s not what it is—but it’s hardly fair to make him sleep on the floor when all Newt’s doing is trying to look out for him. So he shakes his head and says that it’s fine, and then averts his eyes while Newt strips down to his boxers and climbs beneath the covers.

Thomas does the same a little reluctantly. He’s not ashamed of his body, but he’s afraid that it might betray him, knowing that Newt’s almost naked in his bed. Usually, Thomas sleeps in the nude, but that’s obviously out of the question tonight. He climbs into bed with Newt in his underwear and lays beside him, painfully aware of his presence.

Mercifully, after an agonising few minutes of trying not to reach out and touch him, Thomas falls asleep.

 

 

A few hours later, Thomas wakes to a pounding headache and a dry mouth. It’s still the middle of the night, he can tell from the porthole, and for a moment, he can’t remember how he got back to his cabin. His entire body feels like it’s on fire and he reaches up to tug a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, wondering hazily how he ended up feeling like this, only to freeze when he notices the dark shape nestled against his side.

Frantically, Thomas trawls through his blurry memories, trying to remember if he brought someone home with him. It’s not unheard of, though he hasn’t done it since they set sail, but this wouldn’t be the first time that he picked up a stranger and then forgot about it the next day.

But then the mystery person sighs and snuggles closer to him, and then everything comes flooding back.

 _Newt_. It’s Newt, and he’s in Thomas’s tiny, twin bed, and Thomas may have been able to deal with that when he was drunk, but now he’s undeniably, head-poundingly sober, and Newt’s practically _spooning_ him. His leg is draped over Thomas’s and there’s a warm hand sprawled against Thomas’s chest. He can feel the soft strands of Newt’s hair against his neck and his hot breath against his skin and— _oh_. Oh.

There’s something hard pressing against Thomas’s hip.

He swallows, willing himself not to get hard, though it’s hard not to with Newt’s erection pressed up against him. He can’t let himself think about that though. After all, it’s not like Newt’s turned on right now. He’s sleeping. It’s just his body having a perfectly natural reaction.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. He keeps telling himself, until he hears a soft sigh in the darkness and then the rustling of the bedsheets. He tenses, because he suddenly knows, instinctively, that the rustling noise was Newt’s hand moving, and it’s followed by the sound of a waistband being pulled away from skin.

Then the sheets start to move, and Thomas closes his eyes, sucking in a breath.

Newt’s touching himself.

He’s rolled away from Thomas now to lie on his back, and even in the darkness, the movement of the sheets is unmistakeable. The strokes get harder, faster, and just when Thomas can’t take it anymore, he hears Newt utter a word that is unmistakeably, unerringly, Thomas’s name.

He’s sure that he heard it, but then, maybe it’s just his own wishful thinking.

“Thomas,” Newt murmurs again, and then, “oh god, Tommy, fuck me.”

“Holy shit,” Thomas whispers, unable to stop himself.

Apparently, Newt’s a light sleeper, because those two words make him sigh again and then he’s stirring, moving even further away from Thomas like he’s being pulled by a magnet.

 _No_ , Thomas wants to say, _come back and let me touch you_ , but now Newt’s sitting up.

“Thomas?”

“I’m awake,” Thomas says, abstractly amazed with himself for managing to sound so normal when his mind is in overdrive. He hears Newt fumbling around and then the lights flicker to life, leaving the two of them sitting up in bed, staring at one another.

Thomas’s struck by how _good_ Newt looks when he’s sleep-ruffled. That blond hair that Thomas loves is sticking out in all directions and his cheeks are flushed, but he makes it work. His brown eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep, pupils blown with lust from the dream he was having.

“How are you feeling?” Newt asks, apparently entirely unaware that Thomas knows what he was just doing. He’s carefully adjusted the blankets to hide the tent in his boxers, so it’s not an unreasonable assumption, and Thomas could let him go on believing it.

He could pretend that this didn’t happen, like he didn’t hear Newt keening his name like some sort of prayer, but he doesn’t think he wants to.

His gaze flickers to the sheet covering the lower half of Newt’s body and then shoot back up to meet his eyes. Newt’s watching him expectantly, waiting for him to answer the question, but Thomas can’t even remember what it was. All he can think is that Newt’s hard underneath those blankets, and that, for whatever reason, he was crying out for Thomas in his sleep.

Drawing on courage he didn’t know he had, Thomas says boldly, “You said my name.”

Newt’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush a little darker. “Sorry?” he says hesitantly.

“Just now,” Thomas clarifies, “when you were sleeping, you said my name and then you—”

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else. The effect his words have on Newt is instantaneous and alarming—Newt stands up suddenly, letting out a stream of curse words that only serve to make Thomas even more turned on than he already is. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve fucking— _fuck_ , I’m sorry, I’ll go—”

Thomas cuts across him. “Woah,” he says, “Newt, calm down.”

“I’m sorry,” Newt says again, turning to face him with bright red cheeks and guilty eyes. “I’m a creep, I know. I’m so bloody sorry. I’ll leave, alright? I’ll stay away from you from now on.”

Thomas frowns. “I don’t want you to stay away.”

But Newt’s not even listening. “I’m so fucking sorry, I thought that I was going to be able to control myself, but I was wrong, so I’m sorry, Thomas, I’m really fucking sorry—”

He’s still babbling when Thomas vaults off the bed and steps in close. Thomas isn’t even listening to the stream of apologies pouring from Newt’s lips anymore—he’s too busy staring at those lips as they move with frantic explanations. Newt has really great lips. They’re pink and perfect, just the right blend of soft and chapped. They’re lips that were made for kissing.

Thomas leans forward and connects their mouths, effectively silencing Newt’s panicked chatter.

Newt makes a pleasant “mmf” sound as Thomas kisses him, sounding surprised and pleased all at once. Thomas brings his hands up to frame Newt’s face, a thrill running through him as Newt leans into the kiss, body relaxing against Thomas’s. Without breaking the kiss, Thomas steps back, tugging Newt back onto the bed until he’s flat on his back and Newt’s straddling him.

Newt’s weight is warm against him, his lips soft and pliant. His hands are everywhere at once, touching Thomas’s skin and leaving trails of fire in their wake. Thomas kisses Newt until he can’t breathe anymore, and it’s only then that he pulls away, chest heaving.

Newt’s the first to break the silence, giving a breathy laugh as he looks down at Thomas.

“That was unexpected,” he says, bringing his thumb up and pressing it to Thomas’s bottom lip.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for,” Thomas tells him, a grin curving at his lips. His grin grows wider when Newt laughs again.

“Me too,” he says, “Jesus, me too.”

Then he’s leaning down again to press their mouths together, and this kiss is somehow even better than the first. Thomas’s hands find their way to Newt’s hips, thumbs glancing over the sharp jut of his hipbones, fingers ghosting at the waistband of his boxers. He memorises the way Newt’s skin feels beneath his hands, the way his lips give way at the pressure of Thomas’s tongue.

Newt feels skinnier than he looks, and he moans into Thomas’s mouth when Thomas tentatively starts to peel back the waistband of his underwear, testing the waters, seeing if this is too far. The moan makes Thomas kiss him harder, and then Newt nips at his bottom lip, drawing back to look at Thomas with dark, excited eyes.

Something passes between them unsaid and then Thomas rolls them over so that Newt’s lying on his back, Thomas’s body pressing him into the mattress. Thomas pushes a leg between Newt’s thighs, brushing at his erection through his boxers, prompting a bitten lip and a whispered curse. Thomas pauses for a minute to appreciate how amazing Newt looks right now, lying on the bed like some kind of debauched angel.

He’s spent so long fantasising about what it would be like to do this, and God, getting here was hell, but this is the part that Thomas is good at.

He presses kisses along Newt’s jawline, all the way to his ear and then down his neck, until he reaches the sharp curve of his collarbone. He bites down on the hot skin there and chases it with his tongue, pulling and sucking until he’s left a mark that won’t fade for at least a few days. Hickeys are juvenile, Thomas knows, but it still makes him excited to think of Newt walking around with a visible reminder of this moment.

He kisses the love-bite, once, twice, and then kisses his way back along Newt’s neck, pausing to murmur against his skin, “So that must’ve been a pretty hot dream you were having.”

“Mmm,” Newt murmurs, arching his back against the mattress. He’s not really paying attention, too caught up in what Thomas is doing to listen to what he’s saying, but Thomas continues anyway.

“Tell me about it,” he says, nosing at the space between Newt’s ear and his neck.

Newt freezes, stiffening suddenly in Thomas’s arms. “What?”

“Tell me about your dream,” Thomas breathes, kissing the spot beneath Newt’s earlobe. “Tell me about all the things you dreamt I’d do to you. Come on, baby—” The pet name slips from his lips easily, if unintentionally, “—tell me.”

He’s suddenly filled with an aching need to know just what it is that Newt dreams about Thomas doing to him. He knows what he’s been fantasising about for weeks, but what about Newt? Does he dream of things like this, rutting against each other in a tiny twin bed? Are his fantasies the hand-holding kind, or does he dream about hot, rough, sex?

Thomas needs to know.

“It doesn’t matter,” Newt says, but Thomas makes a noise of disapproval against his throat.

“Tell me,” he murmurs again, and slips his hand down Newt’s boxers.

Newt arches off the mattress and then he drags Thomas’s mouth back to his, kissing him hard. It’s not long before Thomas’s pulling away again to press kisses all along Newt’s neck and across the heated skin of his chest, and Newt’s gasping.

“Oh, God,” he says, giving a sharp intake of breath as Thomas bites down on his nipple. “Fuck. Do that again.”

“Tell me what you were dreaming about.”

“We were in the kitchen,” Newt says, his voice rising an octave as Thomas takes the other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it experimentally. “The one at that restaurant on the lower deck, I can’t remember the name— _shit_ , oh God. You—you were fucking me on the countertop.”

Thomas’s dick twitches at the admission and he lets loose a groan against Newt’s neck, rutting up against him instinctively. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Newt says, nodding rapidly, breathing in sharply again as Thomas grasps his cock. “Hard.”

“Was that the first time?”

The words are punctuated with long, slow strokes that make Newt clench at the bedsheets and bite down on his lip to muffle moans of pleasure. “No,” he gasps out, sending a thrill of excitement along Thomas’s spine.

“It wasn’t?” he says, grinning. “You dream about me a lot, babe?”

“Yeah,” Newt says, though speaking seems to be a struggle now that Thomas’s strokes are getting faster. “Shit, _Thomas._ ”

“Is it always in the kitchen? Is that something you’re into? Sex in public places?”

“Stop talking,” Newt says, “and _fuck me_.”

Thomas wants to—God, he wants to—but he’s half-afraid that if they go all the way tonight, then that will be the end of it. Maybe it’s a ridiculous thought to have when his hand is wrapped around Newt’s cock and Newt’s just admitted to having regular sex dreams about him, but he doesn’t want to risk it. This feels amazing. He wants more of it.

So he strokes Newt harder and leans in to kiss his neck again.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs against his skin. “Another time.”

Newt makes a noise of frustration, but it soon turns to one of pleasure as Thomas peels back his boxers and takes him into his mouth to finish the job. Thomas strokes himself while he sucks Newt off, and it’s not long before both of them are coming, Newt crying out Thomas’s name as he lets go.

Thomas collapses back onto the mattress beside Newt, grinning like a madman. They’re both sweat-slicked and sticky, and the entire room smells of sex and hormones, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He feels like he’s just run a marathon and won. The feeling only intensifies when Newt props himself up on his elbow and looks down at him, a slight pout gracing his lips.

“’Another time’?” Newt says. “What was wrong with just now? I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not,” Thomas assures him, “but that’s good to know.” He bites his lip, unsure if he should admit the reason for his stopping. After a moment’s hesitation, he decides to go for it—he doesn’t see why Newt wouldn’t want a repeat of tonight. “I just don’t want this to be the only time that we do this, that’s all. Is that cool? Can we do it again?”

Newt blinks at him and then laughs, leaning down to kiss Thomas again. “You idiot,” he says affectionately, “did you honestly think that if you fucked me, that would be it?”

Thomas shrugs. “Maybe you only wanted a one night thing.”

Newt shakes his head. “You said another time. I’m counting on there being _several_ other times.”

Thomas grins at him, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe we could sneak into the kitchen tomorrow night.”

He earns a punch in the arm for that remark, but it’s worth it to see the blush rise on Newt’s cheeks again.

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know,” Newt murmurs, but the words are punctuated with another kiss.

He falls asleep soon after, but Thomas lies awake, listening to the soft sound of Newt’s breathing beside him and the gentle slap of the ocean against the side of the boat. He’s waiting for Newt to fall into a dream again, to hear his name slip from those perfect pink lips, to see Newt lose himself to his instincts for the second time that night—but it doesn’t happen.

That’s okay, though. Reality, Thomas has discovered, is infinitely better than fantasy.


End file.
